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no one said it would be easy

a return from this but was impressed by her selfless generosity. I learned later that she also topped up the flat’s pantry when it ran low between the flatters’ pay-in periods. She preferred food on the shelves to the groans of the flatmates when asked for more money. Small-breasted and liberated, Steph never saw the need to own a bra and in the wonderful and long ‘Summer of 76’, was in my eyes as exhilaratingly stunning as anything on the big or little screen. A visual treat in flimsy summer clothes, she was high on life and it was a pleasure to be in her realm, especially as she was beginning to demonstrate a fondness towards me.

It could never be said that I was a lothario in my youth. Apart from being a bit shy around young women, my Catholic upbringing had left me overly inhibited. I was often worried about getting out of a relationship, before I had even got in. The Exit Strategy always concerned me. Those bloody priests had indoctrinated us with a mantra of ‘copulation is for making new life’ and of course the act was not to happen outside of the sanctity of marriage … and marriage was forever. Over-arching this was the knowledge that straying from the true path and the many doctrines and dogma of Rome would lead to hellfire and damnation. The only redeeming part of the equation was the church having confessionals where, upon giving a salacious account of your failings, the slate would be wiped clean and both you and the priest would walk forth with a smile on your face, free to start over. So casual sex was not something I had achieved expert status in … I was still a stumbling amateur, willing to learn though.

One Friday night I awoke to Steph, sans vêtement, slipping in beside me in my narrow single bed. ‘The Pope says it is OK’ she whispered. This made the Summer of 76 even more wonderful. Thenceforth, during the day I walked three foot off the ground, and in the night embraced liberating mores. Often we all slept outside in the backyard under the stars, the evenings being so warm. Mum and dad’s visit came and went, Steph charming them with her honest friendship. Roly came … and stayed, taking work in a local garage. Progress on the bikes began to be real. The glacier was on the move.

Pre-season rugby gatherings brought the realisation that I had lost my American. Of course this was in the days long before cell phones or the internet. With no way of finding him again, I needed a replacement, as we were now preparing three bikes. The obvious choice was Roly. The perfect wing-man, he just needed convincing that a gentle introduction into foreign travel was not necessary after all. I recall assuring